


Demons and Dispatchers

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aromantic Shane, Asexual Shane, Dubious Morality, First Kiss, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Whump, demon shane, serial killer Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-05 13:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14045604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: In a handful of hours, Shane has been summoned into a Devil's Trap, subjected to and rescued from an exorcism, and found out his best friend is a serial killer. He's had better nights.The following day, however, is a different story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was intensely depressed and kept seeing _Buzzfeed Unsolved_ trending (or whatever the heck it's called) on tumblr, so I figured I'd check it out. Two weeks later, I've shotgunned the entire series and written 10k words of fanfic. Story of my life.
> 
> This is a finished fic! The next chapter will be posted on Saturday.
> 
> Thanks to both [edgarallanrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgarallanrose/pseuds/edgarallanrose/works) and [yaboybergara](http://yaboybergara.tumblr.com) for taking a gander at this before I sent it off into the world. <3
> 
> ETA: I removed the "graphic depictions of violence" tag and added "mild gore" because 95% of the actual violence takes place off-screen. What you will read is primarily the end result of aforementioned violence, because caretaking is my jam.

This isn't the worst day Shane has ever had, but it's goddamn close. He doesn't count the centuries spent being tormented in Hell and turned into a demon; there's no comparison between pain in different realms, no true unit of measurement. Besides, it seems unfair to liken bad days of the soul to bad days of the flesh.

But being zapped out of his living room and into a Devil’s Trap, chained into it at knife point, and interrogated by two demon hunters who refuse to believe he isn’t possessed? Bad fleshly day doesn’t cover it.

The disturbingly tall man with the hair from a L'Oréal commercial hasn't done much besides misread a bunch of Latin and splash Shane with holy water. The multiple burns and the smell of his own skin sizzling away like a Sodder child are an annoyance; it's the second jackass  dealing serious damage. Blisters line his throat from the salt forced down it; blood covers his chest; one eye has swollen shut., Worse, he has no idea how they managed to summon him here to torture him in the first place.

“I'm not a _demon_ demon!” Shane shouts at them in between rounds of an exorcism that would make Father Thomas lose religion. “What do you plaid-clad assholes even want?”

“You know exactly why we're here,” and this guy's voice is low to the point of ridiculous. Suave, sure, but ridiculous.

“I really, really don't, but that's kind of beside the point.”

“Which is?” If Shane survives, he's tempted to ask the fellow giant for hair care tips.

Blood slides out of Shane’s mouth. “You’re not going to exorcise me. This is _my_ body. It isn’t some random meatsack. I’m bound to it. _Born_ in it. All you're gonna do is, you know, _kill me,_ which I do object to, by the way.” Spitting, he adds, “And if you are intending to murder me, could you maybe hurry it up? Because this sucks.”

“Okay,” says the shorter scruffy one, “but you're a demon.”

“No shit.”

He scratches his own temple with the tip of the knife. “We specifically summoned the entity who's been performing human sacrifices in the area.”

“I’m the only one around here, and it isn’t me!” _Ugh._

A long pause, punctuated only by Shane's heavy, labored breaths. Healing himself will be an absolute bitch, several days of boredom and annoyed agony. What the hell will Shane tell the office? Do demon hunters offer an exorcist’s excuse?

God, what will he tell _Ryan?_ Shane has leapt through hoops to keep him happily oblivious to Shane’s secret. Straddling the line between demon and human was hard enough; it’s nigh impossible when attached at the hip with a ghost hunter.

Demon hunter; ghost hunter. “Hunter” truly is the most malicious word in the English language.

(“Ghost _scientist,”_ Ryan says in his skull).

Squinting, bleary-eyed, Shane thinks they’re both consulting the book. “Do you think we got the wrong guy, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Shane mutters, “you very much did.”

Dean gestures at Shane with the knife. “He's still a demon, Sam.”

“But an innocent one.”

“There's no such thing as an innocent demon!”

“Agree to disagree!” Shane wishes blacking out was an option. Maybe they could revisit sodium poisoning. His stomach lurches at the thought, but vomiting black saline again would be better than listening to these two bicker over whether Shane is evil or not.

He's managed to tune them out when his phone rings, the vibration echoing along the rotting floorboards of the abandoned house. Shane doesn’t know how long he's been here; he hopes it's past Ryan’s bedtime, or else Ryan hasn't woken up with night terrors again. Shane can't exactly drive across the city to calm his best friend down. No cuddling to be had, given the circumstances.

The thought is comforting, the memories of time spent in Ryan’s strong arms. Shane feels secure there, more than anywhere else. Ryan’s prickly exterior melts away when they hold each other close, never crossing the line into sexual territory. Not even romantic, only intimate, and Shane appreciates how much Ryan respects his boundaries. They fit together; Shane never feels pressured, and Ryan has space to figure himself out and answer his own questions.

It’s easy to imagine taking their relationship a step farther, though, to kiss as often as they touch, curled up in Ryan’s bed and—

Shane groans, shocked out of his mind when Dean yanks Shane’s head up by his hair. “Why do you have Ryan Bergara’s phone number?” he asks, shaking Shane's head. “Why the _fuck_ is Ryan Bergara calling you?”

“We work together. We’re _partners_.” Dean releases his hair like it’s offended him. “You're a dick,” Shane hisses, “and you better leave him out of this.”

“Should I call him back, Dean?”

“Do it on the burner.”

Out of options, desperate to protect Ryan, Shane bites Dean’s hand as hard as he can, deep enough to taste blood in his mouth. He tries to ignore the hunger it ignites in his belly, but can’t help the deep growl.

Dean yelps, jerking his hand away only to throw a punch. It connects, and there’s another hour of healing for Shane. “What the fuck? Are you a vampire, too?”

“I'm a lot of things,” says Shane, licking his lips, “but I'm not what you're looking for.”

“He might be telling the truth.” Sam’s thumbnail taps against the screen of the phone. “Maybe Ryan will know.”

Shane hopes he doesn't. _How do these two even_ know _Ryan?_ “Maybe not,” he says. “Ryan doesn’t have a precision mind like I do.” Humor is better than hope, he figures.

Dean grabs Shane’s chin. _What is this guy’s fucking problem?_ “He’ll know whether or not we should send you back to Hell.”

“Just don’t—don’t hurt him, alright?”

“We’re more worried about _you_ hurting him,” Sam says. “He doesn’t deal well with the supernatural.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it.”

Sam gives him a strange look, a light in his eyes Shane can’t translate, especially without his glasses. “I’m going to step downstairs and call Ryan. You keep an eye on him, Dean.”

“Oh, I’ll keep more than an eye on Stretch Armstrong.”

And isn’t that just swell.

 

* * *

 

Sam and Dean have been talking downstairs long enough for Shane to zone out, lulled by their muffled voices and the soft creaking of the attic’s door. The pain is still terrible, but manageable. Shane might be a wimp, but he’s a wimp with a high tolerance for bullshit of all shapes and sizes, no matter how much of a mess he appears to be.

The last time he saw this much vomit on his lap was his freshman year of college. He's never going to bitch about a hangover again, assuming he ever has an opportunity to _get_ another hangover.

Dean could use some long-term therapy. Anger management, at the least, or maybe forced commitment to a Buddhist monastery. Whatever will keep him from carving up some other poor guy, and Shane can’t help but laugh, wondering which season of _Unsolved_ this episode will wind up in. He doesn’t think Ryan’s covered a gutting in either.

_Ryan._ Shane worries his bloodied lip. The gore might not turn Ryan’s stomach, but he’s guaranteed to flee back down the stairs when he finds out Shane is a demon. It’s an especially horrible realization, because being held sounds fantastic, and shit, Shane wants to cry. He knows if he lets go on the waterworks, they’re not going to stop.

Shane decides to rock the chair to try and tip it over. While he might be too tired and uncomfortable to sleep, lying down sounds nice enough.

Shane does, and the chair does. Landing clumsily on the floor hurts more than he expected, and the boards sound like they want to give way. Still, Shane can rest his head; he stops struggling to hold his eyes open, letting them slip closed, exhausted.

Floating comes naturally, disembodiment, dissociation. He tries to conjure up his earlier daydream of Ryan, but his brain is shutting down. The easiest choice is to keep lying prone in the middle of a garish spray paint Devil’s Trap, moving as little as possible.

Movement on the stairs. His chest hurts, heart beating hard and fast. He’s torn between desperately needing it to be Ryan and hoping it isn’t.

The door bangs open, cracking against the wall.

“Oh _fuck.”_

Shane can barely say his name.

The room is a blur of sound and motion Shane can’t parse, save for Ryan’s voice and Ryan’s touch, Ryan’s frantic call for the keys—

“Man, you don’t want to do that.”

“Just give me the fucking keys, Dean!”

“He’s a demon—”

“He’s _my_ demon, dammit!”

“Ryan—”

_“Keys.”_

—and Shane groans in relief with each link of bespelled chain Ryan pulls off his skin, burnt through the tatters of his clothes. Ryan shouts again, and Shane’s swimming in and out of consciousness, but he thinks he mumbles thanks. A light flips on overhead, blinding heat behind his eyelids, but Ryan’s hands are all that matters.

“We thought he was the demon killing those kids,” Sam says from far away, or else in a cave near Shane’s ear.

“It was just some trucker.” Shane hears a steady trickle of water, and he’d managed to forget how fucking thirsty he was.

“He had all the signs.”

“The guy staged it to look that way. He was a cultist; it was part of his M.O.” Ryan hauls Shane’s head and shoulders into his lap. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. He was human, and I took care of him.” Shane wants to ask exactly what “taken care of” entails, but there’s a warm damp cloth on his face, and it feels so good he could cry. “Fuck, what did you _do_ to him, Winchester?”

Another person starts mopping up the blood oozing from Shane’s stomach—Sam, he thinks. “Dean’s post-Purgatory exorcism special.”

“Dean went to Purgatory?”

“And Hell.”

“What the fuck?”

“It’s...complicated.”

_Jesus Christ. No wonder that jerk needs therapy._ Shane almost feels like forgiving him after he makes Ryan kick his ass.

Well. Ryan will have to learn to fight first, but _then_ he can kick Dean’s ass.

Sam and Ryan keep talking in hushed voices, and Shane lets the words wash over him, not paying attention to what’s actually being said, too overwhelmed by gentle touch after so much torture. His hand shakes as he grabs Ryan’s shirt, trying to curl into him and away from Sam, away from the room and the pain. Shane lets Ryan pull him up, relaxing for the first time in hours, more than happy for Ryan’s arm to support his weight, no matter how awkward the position.

Ryan kisses his forehead.

He’s never kissed Shane anywhere.

The dam breaks.

“Gonna cry,” he tells Ryan, tears already trailing down his cheeks.

“I beat you to it, like, twenty minutes ago.”

Shane wants to laugh, but Ryan’s distress is as tangible as his own. “Sounded like a—a leaky pipe wrapped in a jacket.”

Ryan shifts like he’s reaching up. “‘A leaky pipe wrapped in a jacket.’ Is that seriously what you’re going with?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” The banter helps, a welcome distraction from whatever’s being cleaned off of his chest. “I’ll heal up in a few days,” he says through clenched teeth. “Get me out of this trap and back home and I’ll be fine and dandy.”

“We’re stuck here for the night.”

“I think those are the worst six words you’ve ever strung together.” Shane bites back a whine when Ryan moves again. “Can we at least be stuck here with a glass of water?”

“Got you covered.” Shane hadn’t heard Sam leave and come back. “Dean’s freaking out downstairs.”

Shane snorts. His nose feels broken. “Is it any different from him freaking out upstairs?”

“He thinks I’m going to be tempted.” Sam pauses, long enough to steer a boat through. “Demon blood, you know.” A cough; another pause. “Doesn’t want me to drink it.”

“And _I’m_ the vampire?”

“It’s, uh. Also complicated.”

“Your friends here are an entire book of conspiracy theories, Ry.”

“We aren’t on friendly terms anymore,” he says, leaving the cloth sitting in a wad on Shane’s chest in favor of running his fingers soothingly through Shane’s hair. “Debt’s canceled now. isn’t that right, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam slowly replies, “I think we’re leagues beyond square at this point.”

They keep talking, and Sam drags the chair and chains out of the circle. Still speaking to each other, and there’s something about salt, and Shane can’t breathe, choking on a sip of water, pushing the glass away with a flailing arm, panic gurgling in his injured guts—

“At the doors and windows.” Ryan holds Shane tighter, which is as painful as it is wonderful. “Not down your throat. So they feel safe to break the trap.”

Shane busts into hysterical laughter. “So _they_ feel safe? Have they been unfortunate enough to meet themselves? Because, I’ve gotta tell you, they’re _fine.”_

“We don’t have to be nice about this.”

“Oh, good,” Shane calls out, “the Inquisition’s back. Go fuck yourself, buddy.”

Ryan wheezes; it sounds weird, up close like this, but not as strange as his heartbeat. Shane’s honestly afraid of Ryan going into cardiac arrest. How can he play it so cool and calm when all prior evidence would predict him hyperventilating in a situation like this?

Dean’s footsteps are too loud; he’s standing too near. “Just because Ryan’s vouching for you doesn’t mean you’re not a threat.”

“Shane is the least threatening person—”

_“Demon.”_

“—shut up, Dean—I’ve ever met. You’ve been trying to perform an exorcism on...I don’t know, the lovechild of Crawly and Aziraphale.”

“Timely reference,” mumbles Shane. “That’s a nice one.”

“You're basically a houseplant.”

“Topiary?”

“Obviously.”

“Can plants even get possessed?” Dean sounds sincere, which Shane finds worrisome.

Ryan resumes petting Shane's hair. “Put the goddamn salt down and lock the door.”

Shane’s fading fast, but his sense of self-preservation has never felt stronger. “They could set the place on fire and burn us up.”

_“Never,”_ and Dean hasn’t sounded so pissed since the whole ordeal began. It’s unsettling enough for Shane to dial all the way out, leaving three voices to pass overhead atonally, filtered through a spirit box he’d prefer to disbelieve in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck! Thank you guise for the overwhelming support! I've been giddy since I posted chapter one. <3

He wakes up slowly with a shiver tingling up his limbs, converging in his chest. It's not a sensation Shane has experienced before, nothing like the typical healing wave flowing through his body after an injury. Shane has never been attacked like this before, however; maybe healing from an attempted exorcism works differently.

For the first time since Ryan arrived, Shane opens his eyes. It takes more effort than he expected, and proves unsuccessful.

“Hang on a minute,” Ryan murmurs. “Your fucking weirdo eyes have been bleeding.”

“And you didn't think to wake me up?”

Ryan rubs a washcloth over Shane's right eye. “You weren't exactly wakeable.” Shane jerks when the cloth snags on his eyelashes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a couple of idiots tortured me for hours.” He cracks open his unmatted eye. “Is all that blood on you mine?”

“Most of it.”

“Yikes.” He blinks the other eye open, and there’s Ryan, face streaked with scarlet, heavy bags beneath his eyes. Watching him concentrate as he washes Shane's face again is mesmerizing, the same focus he gives his laptop and the spirit box. Having it pointed at him makes Shane feel...strangely honored, in a way.

Ryan flicks his gaze up; Shane's trapped by its intensity. 

“Hey, big guy,” Ryan says softly.

“Not so big right now.”

“You're gangly as shit no matter your condition.”

Shane reaches up to push Ryan’s hair back out of his face. It's as sticky with blood as Shane's own, if not more so. “How long have you known?”

“That you're a demon?”

“No, that I'm Amelia Earhart and survived the wilds of Giant Crab island.”

Ryan chokes on his laughter. “You want to sit up?”

“I'm good here, thanks.”

“Okay, but your huge head is putting my leg to sleep.” Shane relents, letting Ryan help him sit up, whispering apologies when Shane swears as he moves.

“I ache fucking everywhere.” Shane settles in beside Ryan before risking a glance at his arms and torso. “I’m also a mummy.”

Ryan weaves their fingers together, clasping Shane's hand tightly. “Wish I'd known what was happening sooner.”

“You and me both.” Shane thunks the back of his head against the rickety wall. There's bile rising in his throat alongside the shame of being discovered in this condition; of not telling Ryan his secret before now; of Ryan sidestepping his question, because Shane desperately needs to know how long Ryan has carried his secret.

“All Sam said when he called was they had questions about you and I needed to get here as fast as possible.” If Ryan squeezes his hand any harder, Shane’s fingers are going to bruise. “I thought maybe they’d killed you.”

“What were you up to, anyway?” Shane asks. “Did you axe someone?”

“He—he wasn't exactly the first. I might use my research skills for...uh. Less savory purposes.”

“Oh my god.” Shane claps his free hand against his chest. “You're Batman.”

Ryan glares at him. “I'm not Batman.”

“A miniature Punisher.”

_ “No, _ I—well we've seen a lot of police incompetence in our cases, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I pick up the slack.”

Shane rolls his eyes toward Ryan, expecting to see embarrassment, but finding none. It’s unnerving. “Ryan Bergara, vigilante at large?”

Ryan’s grin is crooked.“If you want to put it like that, sure.”

“How do you do it? Are you a sadistic kind of serial killer?”

“Choke out; bleed out; salt and burn and bury. Nothing, you know, violent.”

“I would argue murder is, in and of itself, a violent act.” He stares at his bloodied knees, lost in rapid-fire thought. “So choke holds. Is that why you're basically a—a walking gun show?”

Ryan’s eyes narrow. “‘Walking gun show.’”

“You know, as in, ‘Welcome to the gun show!’”

“I knew what you were talking about.”

“Do you offer background checks?”  _ God, _ but riling Ryan up is easy, and it’s a great fallback, because Shane can’t process that Ryan’s out killing people, whether they’re scum or not. “For gun safety purposes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I guess you do kind of screen them first.” Ryan’s face is hilariously incredulous. Shane tries to laugh, but ends up coughing. “What’s the criteria? Short enough to sneak up on?”

“I don’t—”

“‘This one’s a real bad dude. Too bad he’s six feet tall!’”

If Ryan’s eyebrows crawl any closer together, they’re going to stick to each other. “Shut the fuck up, long legs.”

“Why, Ryan.” Shane tugs on Ryan’s hand dramatically. “I’m wounded. Half dead, even.”

“Doesn’t give me any less reason to tell you to shut your mouth.”

Shane leans in, ready for rebuttal, but the joy of verbal sparring can’t negate the pain of moving too quickly. A wound rips open under his bandages; both hands fly to his stomach, and it’s warm, the gauze blooming with blood. Ryan catches Shane as he loses his balance and tips forward, cursing as Shane steadfastly refuses to cry out, choosing to bite the shit out of his lip, instead.

“You don’t have to censor yourself,” he says, rearranging Shane to lie down on the floor.

“You want to hear—” His jaw stings from the force of his teeth grinding together. “Want to hear my—god  _ fucking _ dammit!”

“I’ve got to put pressure on it.” Shane doesn’t think he’s heard Ryan speak so quickly before. “Put your hands over mine, help me—your blood is ridiculously hard to staunch.”

“What happened?” Shane wonders if Ryan hears him—he can scarcely hear his own voice.

“I think you popped a stitch.”

“Please tell me you did—didn’t use dental floss.”

“...We totally used dental floss.”

The room strobes, there and gone and there again. “Duct tape.”

Ryan meets his eyes, alarmed. “I’m not duct taping an open gash.”

“Do it.”

“Shane—”

_ “Keep me alive so I can heal myself later.” _

Shane’s heart beats in his ears, and he’s curious as to whether Ryan can count Shane’s pulse beneath his hands. “I don’t have duct tape.”

“Oh fucking—don’t cry, Ryan.”

“But I don’t—”

“Table.” Shane tilts his head toward the other side of the room with a jerk. “All their shit—”

“Keep holding,” Ryan stumbles as he stands, the floor shaking with each step and every stride. The sound of tearing tape sends a chill down Shane’s spine. “Move your hands,” Ryan orders, dropping to his knees. 

The gauze is ripped off, and then Ryan applies a strip of tape, and another, and another.

“I think I got it.” Ryan pants, palm on his forehead, the roll of duct tape forgotten on Shane’s leg. “Did they use all that stuff on you?”

Shane’s hand makes it only as far as Ryan’s thigh. “Don’t know what all’s over there, so I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Ryan’s voice cracks as he says, “I’m gonna fucking kill them.”

“Too tall. Doesn’t fit your profile.”

“You never quit, do you?”

“I do love to hear you wheeze.” Ryan drops his hand into Shane’s open palm; Shane has never felt so starved for touch before, so needy. “Cold in here. Think it’s a spooky ghost?”

Ryan settles back on the floor, looking as drained as Shane feels. The gray hoodie he’s peeling off is blood-spattered, and mud-splattered, and the rest of his clothes are no better. Maybe Ryan left the scene of his crime before finishing the job.

“Spin me a yarn.” Shane’s hands rest over the duct tape—it shouldn't be too hard to remove after his stomach heals. “Entertain me, good sir.”

“I'm not making up anything about the goddamn hot dogs.”

Shane lifts his head to let Ryan put his rolled up hoodie underneath it. “Aw, you're such a good nurse.”

“Fuck you, Madej.” Ryan stretches out on the floor beside Shane, their arms almost touching. “What do you want to hear?”

“When did you start killing people?”

_ “That's _ the bedtime story you want to hear?”

Shane turns his head, and now they're staring at each other again. He wishes he had his glasses so Ryan was less of a blob. “Among other things, yeah. I mean, my mild-mannered friend is secretly a virtuous Hannibal Lecter.”

“I'm not eating them, Shane.”

“Now that's just wasteful.”

“I hate you.”

“Oh, good.” Shane scoots closer and Ryan gets the hint, carefully putting his arm over Shane. “Thought about this, you know. During.”

“During w—oh.” Ryan moves his hand to rest over Shane's heart. “Oh.”

It's peaceful, here, lying together in the aftermath. Not enough to quell the questions zipping around Shane's brain, or to make his body feel less riddled, but the world seems approaching normal again. Him and Ryan, huddled on the floor of a ramshackle house, waiting for sunrise.

“It was after the Keddie case.” Shane half-expected the narration voice, not this quiet, serious cadence. He's almost disappointed. “There was so much misconduct,” Ryan says, “and so many things mishandled, seemingly on purpose. I've never been angry like that before.” His eyes seem darker, shadowed from within. “Injustice perpetrated by the law, itself, accepted— _embraced,_ really—by the residents of the town. It was...I don't know,  _ evil. _ More than any spirit I might meet could ever be, because it was a living, breathing, ever-present thing.”

“And you decided becoming a serial killer was the answer?”

Ryan wrinkles his nose. “I'm not a serial killer.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Um. Well. Let me…” Ryan blinks his eyes rapidly; there might as well be equations flashing in front of his face. “Five? No, wait, six. Yeah,” he nods, like he’s trying to convince them both, “definitely six.”

“Ry.”

“What?”

“You're a serial killer.”

Shane can't decide whether the noise Ryan makes is more shocked or disgusted, but he sounds like a duck, weirdly enough, and Shane's laughing, which hurts, but he frankly couldn't give fewer shits. “Don't fucking judge me,” Ryan says. “I mean, only one of us here is actual hell spawn. There's no room for pointing fingers.”

“I've never killed anyone!”

“Yeah. I know.”

Shane puts his own hand over Ryan’s, like they're both holding Shane's chest together as they did with his stomach. “What would disembowelment of the heart be called, anyway?” he muses, wrapping his long fingers around Ryan’s. “Dischambering, maybe? Devalving?”

“Tangent, much? Also, neither of those are words.”

“They  _ could _ be.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And  _ you,” _ says Shane, shaking their joined hands, “already knew what I was.”

“What, an idiot?”

“A  _ demon. _ When did you figure it out?”

The silence is awkward and long enough for Shane to count the spiderwebs hanging down from the ceilings. He thinks if he spent enough time investigating the place, there’d be a broken doll in a closet and a couple of bats in the pantry. It’s one of the most nondescript, cookie cutter horror movie houses Shane’s ever been in, except there are three actual monsters here with him.

One beast beside him, holding him, face pressed against Shane’s mostly-bare shoulder, and Shane has never thought of himself as a monster before, but he’s willing to if it will make Ryan seem human again by comparison.

“Father Thomas told me,” Ryan whispers. His breath puffs warm against Shane’s skin. “You went to the bathroom, and he said you were a demon.”

Shane swallows harshly. “You believed him? Just like that?”

“Not—not at first, no. He said you were different, not the possessing kind, and not malevolent, and I’d be fine. You wouldn’t hurt me. I knew  _ that _ much was true.” Ryan nuzzles Shane’s shoulder. “‘Do not be afraid.’ And I wasn’t.”

The top of Ryan’s head is right there, so Shane gives in and rests the side of his on it. “C’mon, share my grimy pillow.”

“Wait. That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“No clarification needed? Nothing?”

“You answered my question,” says Shane. “Simple enough. I’m demonic; you’re cool with it; Father Thomas isn’t going to pull a Winchester. If I survive this, I’ll send the guy some, ‘Thanks for not being a dick!’ chocolate.”

Ryan bumps his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “This is the most ‘you’ reaction ever.”

“Actually, can priests  _ have _ chocolate?”

“Why wouldn’t they be able to have chocolate?” Ryan rearranges himself to share the hoodie with Shane, turning onto his side. He throws his leg over Shane’s, and now he’s covered in a Ryan-shaped octopus.

“I don’t know,” he says, remembering how his lungs work. “I thought it might be too sinful or something. Only Easter bunnies and candy crosses allowed. Maybe a chocolate manger or two at Christmas.”

“Jesus Christ.”

_ “Exactly.” _

Ryan falls asleep first, all half-hearted snores and dead weight. As always, Shane finds much-needed safety beneath his Bergara blanket. He rests his eyes—“checking for pinholes,” his mom used to say—hoping sleep won’t escape him. There’s no threat of Ryan waking up chattering about ghosts, because those don’t fucking exist; no demons, either, because Ryan always goes to the wrong places, and Shane’s not about to correct him.

This is  _ his _ human, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three goes up on Tuesday! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, Ship's Patented Obligatory Breakfast Scene. :D

Shane wakes up when the salt circle breaks, chest heaving as he gulps lungfuls of air. He’s shaking violently as his body makes up for lost healing time, going into overdrive, trying to repair all Shane’s wounds at once. Fire licks along his nerve endings, and his skin feels like it’s smouldering.

_ New theory, _ he thinks.  _ Our unsolved human combustion cases were all demons, too. _

Ryan pops into view overhead. “What’s going on?”

“Healing.” Sweat slides down the bridge of his nose. “Poorly.”

“Why?”

“Trauma.”

“Too much?”

“Mhm.” The washcloth from last night lies stiff and dry on Shane’s forehead, but the thought was nice. “Salt?”

Ryan hums back, pointlessly blotting at Shane’s face, his own features screwed up like a caricature. No serial killer should be allowed to be  _ adorable. _ This entire situation is fucking absurd. Father Thomas would be truly perplexed.

“Sam came up to check on us at sunrise,” Ryan says. “Well, on me, at least. Broke the circle after Dean went to pick up their friend.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“More—” The full-body queasiness and tremors wane; Shane’s jaw stops shuddering. “More assholes.”

Ryan eases from squatting to sitting. “How are you feeling?”

“Less like I wandered into  _ House of 1000 Corpses _ .” Shane raises up on his elbows, wincing. “I think my insides have decided to stay put.”

“Progress!”

“Can we leave yet? That would be  _ real _ progress.” He recoils when Ryan touches his cheek, hating himself for doing so, but Dean's handprint feels burned into his skin. “Sorry.”

“Gonna kill them,” Ryan vows again, running his fingers through Shane's hair, like he has for hours.

“Nah. They're—they're what, doing their jobs?”

“Badly, but...sure, I guess.”

“It's not like they're ordained by the Pope to rid the earth of evil.” Shane hesitates. “Wait,  _ are _ they?”

Ryan stares at him. “Are you rationalizing or forgiving?”

“Oh, no, no, fuck those guys.” Ryan’s entire face screws up with a smile. “But I had time to think while you were snoring—”

“I don't snore.”

“—and it's like how I never knew you were out killing it up. I could definitely be a bad guy!”

“Case of mistaken identity?”

“Yes! That.” Shane waggles the fingers of his right hand until Ryan gets the idea and helps pull Shane up to sitting. “Even the fandom thinks I'm demonic.”

Ryan snickers. “One-oh, fandom.”

“These schmoes summon some nebulous Joe Demon and  _ poof! _ Here's Shane.”

“Well—”

“You know, that's kind of racist.” Shane leans forward enough to rest his forehead on the top of Ryan’s head. “‘Oh, it's a demon! Must be a super villain.’”

“I don't think social justice is ready for you,” and Ryan grins, brilliant enough for Shane to see from the odd angle. “Shall we brave the stairs?”

Shane tugs at Ryan until they're sitting side by side before slipping his arms around him, delighted when Ryan follows suit. “Not yet.”

“Not up to it?”

“This doesn't—us, here, holding on, closer than close. It doesn't happen enough.”

Ryan deflates. “I'm sorry about that.” One of his hands manages to reach the back of Shane's neck; Ryan rubs at it with his fingertips, almost all nails and no fingers. “Insecure. Panicky.”

“It's okay. I under—”

“You could’ve  _ died _ last night,” says Ryan, voice feathery and uncertain. “You could've died, and I've never even kissed you.”

Shane’s going to blackout again. “I—I—do best friends kiss on the mouth?”  _ Please, let best friends kiss on the mouth. _

“Sure. All the time.” Ryan looks away, clearing his throat. “They, uh. They  _ do _ do that, don't they?”

“Maybe?”  _ Hopefully? _ It isn't like they're in love with each other, but Shane can't deny craving the closeness, the intimacy. He'd do anything for Ryan, short of hiding a—

_ Hmm. I actually might have to help Ryan hide a body at some point. _

“We have a profound friendship,” Shane continues. “It's meaningful. And Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan have kissed. Why not us?”

“Did you just compare us to Picard and Gandalf?”

“Or Professor X and Magneto.”

Silence.

Ryan  _ doesn’t _ kiss Shane, and Shane doesn’t kiss him. It’s relieving and distressing all at once. Instead, Ryan finishes unbuttoning Shane’s short-sleeved floral shirt, which is worse, because they’ve not touched each other like this before, either.

“Don’t make this a panic room,” mumbles Shane. Ryan’s fingers leave static in their wake.

“I had time to think last night, too, on the drive over.” His hands are shaking. “Priorities,” and he doesn’t explain further. Ryan pries his nail underneath the corner of a strip of duct tape. “Ready?”

“Let ‘er rip.”

Ryan does, and Shane invents a new language for cursing. Then a second. After, a third.

“That’s...wow.” Shane isn’t sure which of them is trembling as Ryan follows the thin lines of partially-healed skin across Shane’s abdomen, gingerly stroking them with his thumb. “That’s amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Shane, you’re  _ healing _ yourself, of  _ course _ I think so.”  _ Idiot, _ goes unsaid, but Shane hears it all the same. “Come on.” Ryan unrolls the hoodie and doesn’t even ask, simply pulling it down over Shane’s head. “Let's get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Navigating the staircase side-by-side is like taking a trip up an ancient ferris wheel, except backwards, and without the false promise of safety offered by bars and buckets. The height of the ceiling makes the space further claustrophobic. Shane hadn’t seen it before, having been summoned into the attic directly, but the owners of the house were obviously less than six feet tall and preferred single file lines.

Sam must have had one hell of a time going up and down these steep steps, hunched over like a giant Quasimodo. Shane takes comfort in that mental image.

He could do without this consistent loss of balance, though, turning him into a pinball with each jostle against the banister, careening into Ryan’s side. Ryan doesn’t seem to mind—he’s done a one-eighty, consistently, demonstratively affectionate. Shane wonders if it will last beyond his convalescence, immediately pushing the thought away as hard as he can.

_ Ryan’s a serial killer, _ Shane reminds himself.  _ All bets are off. _

Although, Shane’s a demon, and Ryan was aware, and never once has he acted afraid. He decides, as they trip down to a landing, to extend his partner the benefit of the doubt.

_ Could be worse, I guess. He could be Bundy. _

“I can smell the smoke from your brain all the way over here,” Ryan says.

“Your nose is six inches away from my face.”

“More like four.”

“Even better.” Shane isn’t sure where the bravado comes from, but he adds, “Kissing distance.”

Ryan fucking  _ giggles; _ it’s beautiful, but Shane worries for his lungs. “Yeah, um.” Shane can feel Ryan’s cheek heat up when he trips over an exposed nail and nearly sends them plummeting to the bottom of the staircase.  “I didn’t know how you felt about that.”

“Guess you do now.”

“Guess so.”

Shane can stand up at full height again, but it makes Ryan too short to help him walk. While the pain has improved, he’s nowhere in the vicinity of being well. His lack of glasses isn’t helping, either, dizzy enough that Shane would be leaning against the wall of obligatory spooky portraits whether he was injured or not.

Ryan assesses the situation before calling out for, “A little—well, a lot of help here?”

Shane prepares for Dean, though he would prefer Sam. Instead, it’s a new stranger, accessorized with as much dirt as Ryan, wearing what must be the official Winchester line of plaid and work boots.

“Who are you?” Ryan asks. The guy smells like Xerox ink, or an old fax machine, or—

“Angel.” It makes Shane nervous, letting the enemy drape Shane’s arm over his shoulder, more uneasy still, when Ryan lets him support all of Shane’s weight.

“Demon.”

And that’s...all. Acknowledgment. No smiting, though Shane doesn’t know if he can  _ be _ smote. Shane’s chest hasn’t sprouted an angel blade, either. Out of the three people he’s met in the past twenty-four hours, Shane’s immortal enemy seems to be the most trustworthy.

The angel’s foot gets tangled with Shane’s. “Apologies,” he says.

“You’re a weird angel.”

“You aren’t the first to tell me.” He clears his throat. Shane wonders how much salt  _ he’s _ swallowed. “I’ve also lost my wings.”

Shane grabs his stomach—he’d overdone it going down two flights of stairs. But the angel wraps his arm around him, and now his hand is on top of Shane’s, and—

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Ryan from behind them as they round a corner. “This man—”

“Castiel.”

“Fine, whatever, this Castiel is an angel— _ was _ an angel.”

“Yeah,” Shane confirms.

“Oooo-kay.” Ryan sounds like he’s one round of late-game  _ Tetris _ away from freaking out. “So—so let me get this straight. You’re a demon.”

Shane grunts when Ryan pokes him between the shoulderblades. “And here I thought we’d established that. I see a lot less chocolate in Father Thomas’ future.”

“Shane, I thought you didn’t believe in the supernatural.” Ryan’s voice keeps climbing in volume.

“I don’t.”

_ “But he’s an angel.” _

“What about it?”

Ryan squeaks out an indignant, “Shane.”

“Mhm.”

There’s no longer an echo of steps behind Shane and Castiel. “Shane, what the fuck?”

“It’s hardly supernatural if it’s my, you know, natural.” The muscles in Shane’s neck twitch in protest, so he turns his head back around.

Castiel stops walking, too. “He does make a compelling case.”

“Please,” says Ryan, feet thudding against the floor as he catches up. “Please, don’t encourage him.”

Shane would gloat—he’s already got a smirk, impossible to hide, fanning across his face—but he smells coffee, and greasy fast-food hashbrowns, and breakfast is the most compelling case of all.

The kitchen proves as decrepit as the attic, except cabinets cling desperately to the wall, and what might have been linoleum forty years ago covers the floor. Castiel has to kick at a line of salt in front of the doorway, and Shane finds it hilarious, these douchebags thinking any self-respecting demon would want to be in this kitchen. It reminds him of the Sallie house, but with no pride The table wobbles beneath Sam’s elbow, and the counter is poised to dump a flashlight onto the floor.

Dean’s leaning against the stove in the Fonz’s leather coat. “Apology breakfast,” he says, indicating the spread of McDonald’s bags on the table.

“I didn’t know they had a menu for, ‘Oops, we accidentally tortured you.’”

“To be fair, you  _ are _ a demon.”

“See, Ryan? Racist.”

Castiel helps Shane into a chair; said chair protests immediately. “He’s a hybrid, to be precise. One of the first. I would argue he’s more human than demon. Perhaps closer to a daemon.”

_ This must be what the subject of a nature documentary feels like. _

“Like  _ The Golden Compass?” _

“I’m unfamiliar with most navigational tools, Sam.”

“It’s a  _ book, _ Cas,” says Dean, handing him a breakfast burrito. Shane doesn’t think he’s seen someone so excited for a burrito in his entire life.

“According to Plato,” Cas begins, opening the wrapper carefully, “daemons were spirits assigned to individuals at their birth—an external protector. Although they were supposedly exalted, intelligent beings, which...” He stares pointedly at Shane before taking an enormous bite from his breakfast.

“Shane’s smarter than he looks.”

“Uh, thanks, Ryan. I think.”

“So what can you actually do?” Sam leans across the table, arm perilously close to a pile of wrapped biscuits.

“I’m pretty good at yelling at things that don’t exist and thinking about random shit when I’m trying to sleep.” Shane takes a hashbrown and adds, “I like history? Does that count?”

“I mean, what powers do you have?”

“Self-healing. Beyond that, I’m honestly not sure. Never really had an inclination to check.”

“Daemons are purported to share a connection with the earth.” Castiel peers at the burrito as though he accidentally divined the information from the tortilla.

“Learn something new every day.”

“Are you serious?” The metal ends of the chair’s legs scrape across the floor like grinding teeth; Ryan plops into it, and the chair rocks back, making him clutch the table with his hands to keep from falling over. “You never tried to find out anything about yourself?”

The hashbrown is more important, so Shane shrugs and keeps eating.

“Congratulations on being the laziest demon ever. No wonder Father Thomas said you wouldn’t be a problem.” Ryan puts his elbows on the table, chin in his hands. “That being said, I’m still reeling over meeting an angel. How did you guys wind up with an angel, anyway? Wait, does that mean God is real? What  _ else _ is real?”

If Ryan doesn’t calm down, Shane’s afraid he’s going to have a stroke. 

“You know how you called him your demon?” Dean takes a sip of coffee—Shane can’t decide if he’s enjoying or merely tolerating it. “Cas is my angel.”

Shane had forgotten Ryan’s words the night before. “When did I become Ryan’s personal demon?”

“Daemons have also traditionally acted as a kind of guardian.”

“And angels?”

Castiel gives Dean a sideways look. “Some humans are very persistent.”

Dean kisses Castiel’s temple, and Shane can cross seeing an angel blush off of the bucket list he’s never cared to write. “And there was an apocalypse, Ryan. Also God is a dick.”

Sam smiles weakly at Shane. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything seems to be around you two,” says Shane around a mouthful of potato. “So what about aliens? That’s legitimately all I believe in besides me and your not-so-holy ghost.”

All of the blood drains from Dean’s face. His grip tightens around the disposable cup. “There are no aliens. They’re fairies.”

“What? None, at all?” Shane bumps hands with Ryan as they both reach for a biscuit. He grins, grabbing Ryan’s hand instead of food, and now Castiel isn’t the only one turning red. “Not even unicellular organisms?”

“Nope. Tiny naked ladies and grumpy old men.”

“That’s...incredibly specific.”

_ “Trust me, _ okay?”

“Considering the wringer you put me through?” Ryan squeezes Shane’s hand, but makes no move to release it. “I’m going to go with a hard ‘no’ on trusting you.”

Dean nods his head once, deferential. “That’s fair.” He drains the rest of his coffee. “Surprised you trust the little guy.”

“He’s tortur _ ous, _ not tortur _ ing.” _

“Hey, wait a minute—”

Shane doesn’t let Ryan finish. “How’d you all meet up? Do they have killer conventions or something?”

Sam leans his chair back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “Dean and I are hunters, not killers,” he says before looking at Ryan and adding, “No offense.”

Ryan grumbles out a lie about not being offended before snatching up a biscuit with his free hand.

“Okay, fine, killers  _ and  _ hunters.”

“Well, we hunt basically anything supernatural.” Sam starts counting on his fingers. “Ghosts, vampires, werewolves—”

“Uh-huh.” Shane glances at Ryan’s food. “Oh, sausage, egg, and cheese. Very nice.” He tries to drop Ryan’s hand so he can grab one of his own, but Ryan won’t let him, choosing to slide his biscuit over to Shane and take another from the pile. “You’re the best.”

“How are you able to eat this?” asks Ryan.

“With my mouth.”

“Oh for the love of _ —the sodium content. _ It has to be through the fucking  _ roof.” _

“It’s not pure salt.”

“You sure about that?”

Shane bites into his biscuit with purpose. “Nice and buttery. Sausage isn’t overwhelmingly spicy. I might forgive you two yet.” He swallows—it would be easier with a drink, but his throat can’t take lava-hot coffee and the water had tasted like a raccoon took a piss in the pipes. “So, serial killers, since none of those things you just mentioned exist.”

“The ghosts do,” Ryan says. “Besides, you believe in Bigfoot.”

Castiel finishes licking his fingers before telling them, “Richard makes excellent tea.”

_ “Richard?” _

“Richard  _ Bigfoot.”  _ Shane elbows Ryan. “C’mon, Ry, where are your manners?”

Sam has the most incredible resting bitch face, Shane's decided. “And I promise, those aren't the only monsters out there. We've been hunters all of our lives.”

“Except for the time you went to college and then the eight months where you got a dog.”

“Jesus  _ Christ, _ Dean, will you drop it already?”

“Look, I'm very happy for you and your shared delusions, but I'd still love to know how you crazy folks found each other.”

Dean's empty cup snaps. Castiel gently pries it from his hand.

“In a graveyard. We were both burying people,” Ryan explains. “They taught me to salt and burn. Beyond being practical, it also keeps me from being haunted.”

“By the ghosts that aren't real?”

Before Dean can do more than growl, Cas clears his throat. “One could argue that they aren't real, per se, but that they do, in fact, exist.”

Shane frowns. “I don't follow.”

“If we accept time as being nonlinear, it follows that all events occur simultaneously. Benjamin Franklin would then be walking the earth in the ‘past’ as we do in the ‘present.’”

“Filthy sex fiend that he was. Or is?”

Castiel squints, considering, but ultimately moves on. “These spirits and psychic disturbances, then, are merely a porthole through weak points in the fabric of the universe.”

“Now  _ that _ is a compelling argument.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “There’s no science behind it, either!”

“Quantum mechanics,” Sam offers. “Specifically the application of entanglement theory. Plus, there’s no solid proof that physical laws have any effect on the nature of time, so it doesn’t necessarily have to flow in a straight line.”

Shane toasts Sam with his biscuit.

“I swear I’m going to murder everyone in this room.” Castiel pats Ryan’s back reassuringly after Ryan’s forehead makes friends with the table.

“I’ll haunt your ass, short stack,” swears Dean, reaching blindly into one of the paper bags. “Salt and burn or not, I will find a way.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Why the fuck not, Shane?” Ryan doesn’t even bother lifting his head, the dulcet tone of defeat in his voice all too clear.

_ “Because ghosts aren’t real.” _

Sam pokes around in the diminishing pile of breakfast sandwiches. “Did you not get McGriddles?” He glares at Shane and mouths, “Change the subject.”

“Uh.” Shane scrambles for anything to talk about—if the vein in Dean’s forehead gets any closer to bursting, he might die. “Oh! I keep meaning to ask; did you jerks happen to summon my glasses? I hadn’t put my contacts in yet, and I can’t remember if they were on my face before you started pummeling me.”

Dean relaxes, scratching the back of his neck. “Shit. I forgot that Cas went to get them.”

“How do you know where I live? I thought you just summoned me—which no one’s ever done, so I guess that’s—” Shane takes another bite of his biscuit while he thinks. “Yeah, that’s not a special ability if you two managed it.”

“You were in Ryan’s contacts. We got it when Sam lifted his phone from his car.”

“And the GPS was still programmed to his dump site,” adds Sam, settling for a hashbrown. “Cas went and finished cleaning that up for you, by the way.”

Ryan gives him a thumbs up, face still attached to the table.

“You’re a lucky guy, Shane.”

“I have a series of fading bruises suggesting otherwise.”

Sam shakes his head. He folds back the wrapper like origami paper. “I mean that he literally dropped his shovel and risked a haunting to come get you.”

“And he gut-punched Dean.” Castiel eyes Ryan. He looks like Grumpy Cat, and between that and Ryan attacking Dean, Shane can’t stop laughing. “That can cause serious injury.”

Dean puts his arms around Castiel. “I fought a legion of monsters to find you. Ryan’s not going to kill me, sweetheart.”

“I  _ might.” _

Shane rubs his thumb across the top of Ryan’s hand. It felt so natural to hold it, Shane had managed to forget they had yet to let go of each other. “That’s disgustingly romantic.” If they give each other any more meaningful looks, however, Shane will throw up his breakfast.

“Lots of war stories, huh,” but they don’t hear him.  _ Gross. _ “Soooo where are my glasses, again?”

Sam reaches into the pocket of Dean’s coat and pulls out Shane’s glasses case. “Go short,” and he tosses them over.

Shane releases Ryan in time to catch them. “Thanks.”

“And sorry, again.”

“Yeah, well. I guess it’s easy to get swept up in the moment.” He drums his fingers against the table before carefully pushing himself up. “This has been fun! Let’s do it again never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! It's always wonderful to know I'm not throwing words out into the void, especially in a new fandom. <3
> 
> Last chapter will post on Friday. See you then!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small content warning for blood consumption. It's been implied throughout the fic, but I felt like I should point it out since it's overt here. Since Shane doesn't drink it, and it's not a kinky thing, I decided not to tag it.
> 
> I can't believe we're already at the end! :(

Castiel insists on accompanying them to the car like a mother hen, giving Ryan tips on not being caught and making Shane promise to learn more about his demonic nature. He programs his number into Shane’s phone, even though he’d told the Winchesters to lose his address. There seems to be a reunion in his future whether Shane wants one or not.

He closes the passenger door as Ryan asks Castiel, “You really love him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“How—how did you know?”

Shane tries not to look like he’s listening, but there’s no casual position beyond staring wistfully out the car window at a wide expanse of dead trees and patches of tall brown grass. Focusing on keeping his stuttering heart operating, Shane closes his eyes, resting his head against the cold glass.

“I don’t believe either of us realized until our time together in Purgatory,” Castiel says. “Dean knew when he killed his way to me—it was clear on his face. But it took me choosing a human life to stay with him to figure it out.”

Ryan’s silence is deafening. “I just...it doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to, I guess?”

“Love comes in many forms.” Shane peers at them out of the corner of his eye; his lungs burn from lack of air. “All of them are valid.”

He has to strain to hear Ryan admit, “I’m scared,” but Castiel hugs him hard enough to rattle the car.

“It takes courage to keep going when you’re afraid.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re braver than you think.”

Ryan doesn’t reply.

They wave at Castiel through the back windshield as Ryan turns out onto the gravel road. Shane watches him stand there until Castiel is too far behind them to see.

 

* * *

 

The drive seems endless, though Shane knows from watching the clock it was barely an hour. But Ryan remains silent, and Shane’s words are likewise lost. A mountain grew between them unexpectedly. Shane tries to relax and focus on healing himself, wondering which apartment they’ll end up at, his or Ryan’s.

He doesn’t realize he’d drifted off to sleep until Ryan shakes him awake. “We’re here.”

“Which here?”

“Your place.” Ryan unbuckles Shane’s seatbelt. “Thought you’d be more comfortable.” Their hands are close enough for their knuckles to touch, and Shane wants to grab Ryan’s and hang on. He’s too drained to do more than bump the backs of their hands together. “I better help you upstairs.”

“Stay with me.” Shane tastes desperation in his mouth—everything is hitting him at once, all confusion and nausea. A helpless noise escapes him when Ryan holds his hand between both of his, and the mountain dissolves into a chasm, and all Shane wants is to bury himself in Ryan’s embrace and never leave.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.” He presses a hesitant, trembling kiss to Shane’s cheek. “You’re always watching out for me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you. Okay?”

“Very okay.”

Shane shakes through the entire trip, uncertain whether it’s because of nerves or expending too much energy trying to heal. Ryan practically carries him, or at least his weight, from the sidewalk to the stairs, through the door and to Shane’s couch.

“You sure you don’t want to go to bed?”

_Oh god, yes, please._ “Can’t make it. Need—” Shane bites his lip as a stone of self-disgust settles in his stomach. He rests his head on the back of the couch. “Bag in the freezer.”

Ryan jogs toward the kitchen. “Of?”

_Fuck._ “Red ice.”

“Like—like popsicles?” He sounds hopeful; Shane hates to dash it.

“Not really, no.”

“So...cubes?”

“Chips.”

Ryan snorts. “What, in case you go into labor?” He rummages around in the freezer. “Do you seriously have Kid Cuisine in here for yourself?”

“The pudding changes color!”

“You’re fucking absurd, Shane.” Ryan’s arm peeks around the wall separating them, a large zipper bag clenched in his hand. “This what you wanted?”

His vision swims violently, catching Shane off guard. “Mhm.”

Ryan’s head joins his arm. “Stupid question, but are you okay?”

“Gotta recharge.” Shane sits up and immediately regrets moving. “I’m out of practice.” He squints and adds, “When did you get back over here?”

He doesn’t say, but he does squeeze in beside Shane. “Stop being a hero and lie down,” and Ryan tugs on the borrowed, ill-fitting hoodie until Shane rearranges his body.

“You don’t have enough room,” Shane says, and Ryan can’t be comfortable sitting underneath Shane’s back, even if his head _is_ resting on the arm of the couch. “I’ve trapped you in my web of intrigue and body parts.”

“Just shut up and eat your blood.”

And Shane stills, and stops smiling, and feels cold in his bones. “It’s not—it’s not human.”

Ryan looks down at him, eyebrows arched. “Why should it bother me? I kill people _—bad_ people. They aren’t human, either.”

“Ryan, you can’t—you can’t just say that. You’re not supposed to kill anyone.”

“It’s not like I’m proud of it or something.”

Shane tables the conversation for later. “I mean the blood is from a butcher. Not—not the butcher’s blood! Though I guess he owns the pigs, so it technically _is_ his blood, but—” Shane startles when Ryan shoves an ice chip in his mouth.

“Quiet, you.”

Shane does. He _stays_ quiet. The atmosphere possesses a kind of lazy unreality, a haziness, making his eyelids droop. It’s been months since Shane has needed to feed like this, long enough for him to forget the soporific effect blood has on him. His body feels loose and fluid, and Shane giggles when his head slips off the arm of the couch.

But Ryan catches him, because of _course_ he does. Shane’s too out of it to feel ashamed of being fed; it’s not like his arms want to cooperate. Besides, this is perfect, being held and safe and cared for, and—

“When did I become your pet demon?” Shane murmurs. “Personal” demon doesn’t feel as adequate as it did this morning. Not enough depth to it.

“About the time I became your pet human, I think.” Shane laughs softly, curling farther into Ryan. “Feeling better?”

“Much.” Shane reaches for one of Ryan’s hands, tugging it between them, kissing his palm before he loses his nerve. “Company helps,” and Ryan hasn't jerked his hand away, so Shane kisses it again, then settles for holding it against his cheek.

Shane is lightly dozing when Ryan says, “I just thought Dean was straight, that's all.”

Turning away from the warmth of Ryan’s stomach is difficult. “I think I missed something.”

“He never talked about guys,” he continues. “I mean, I'd only ever spent time with them like twice after we met, and he was—he flirted with waitresses.”

“I think flirting with a server is fairly common, Ry.”

“You're insufferable.”

Shane fails his attempt not to nuzzle Ryan’s hand. “I'm plenty sufferable.” He hums in contentment. “Also possibly a cat.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “It made me think. I was kind of startled, you know, when he introduced his—his boyfriend.”

“Right.”

“And it gave me a lot to think about.”

“Mhm.”

Ryan touches Shane's cheek again, and he doesn't jump away this time. “I still don't really…’straight’ doesn't feel right, but neither does anything else.”

“Labels are stupid, anyway.” So are his glasses right now—Shane slips them off before the shit gets bent out of the frames. “I'd never even heard aromantic or asexual until Sara started talking about it. And then I was...it was cool to know there were words for it, but I didn't especially care.”

“I care about you.” All in a rush; Shane almost needs a cypher to understand. “And I—I don't think best friends, uh. Well. Kiss.”

_Goddammit._

“But I still want to kiss you.”

_Sorry, God. I take it back._ “Give me a hand.” Ryan does, but Shane’s head flops into his face. “Oh shit. Sorry.”

He expects Ryan to keep pulling him up; instead, he puts his arm behind Shane’s back, like he had at the—for lack of a better term—torture house. Ryan rubs his forehead with his other hand. “You have the hardest skull.”

“Better to protect the thinky bits. A bone helmet. Like the, uh...Nijmegen cavalry. Full face protection with a stupid crown.”

“The _what?”_

Shane waves his hand in front of his own face. “It’s a Roman thing.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd.” Ryan sounds fond, and he’s smiling again.

There’s a snappy comeback eluding Shane. He prefers sitting all the way up and leaning against Ryan to chasing humor. “This isn’t very romantic. The conversation.” Shane puts his head on the back of the couch again, turning his face to Ryan. He doesn’t believe he’s ever looked at Ryan’s ears before. “The situation might be construed as it, though, what with the rescuing and all.”

Ryan frowns. “That’s part of the problem. You don’t do romantic.”

“So? Things have worked out pretty well between us so far.” Shane grabs the bag of blood chips, popping another in his mouth, tucking it against the inside of his cheek. “Why change?”

“It’s like you don’t understand how love works.”

“Ouch.”

Ryan’s face scrunches. “That came out wrong.”

“I’ll forgive you, but—” and Shane wags his finger at Ryan, “—only this once.”

A long pause. “You really think it’s that simple? ‘Song remains the same,’ and all?”

“Should it be harder?” Shane considers his words, and immediately starts snickering. “Wow, word choice.”

“And that’s…” Ryan continues not to meet Shane’s eyes, hands restless on his thighs. “That’s kind of the other problem.”

“I’m not sex opposed,” says Shane. “Just kind of—kind of indifferent.” He elbows Ryan in the ribs. “Cuddles and smooches are more fun.”

“‘Cuddles and _smooches?’”_ He laughs, and the world returns to normal. “Have I told you lately you’re ridiculous?”

“Here I thought I was just absurd and insufferable.”

Ryan’s eyes are wet, almost glassy, piercing, determined. “You’re that, too.” Shane doesn’t get a warning or time to adjust to having a lapful of Ryan, his calves against Shane’s thighs. He plants one hand against Shane’s chest before clasping the tip of Shane’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I want to kiss you,” and it’s his mantra, their song, this careful push-and-pull. “Can I?”

“I certainly can’t kiss myself.”

His smile is wide and sunny—“Ridiculous,” he murmurs, then tilts Shane’s head, angling their faces, and presses their lips together for the first time.

It shouldn’t be perfect, shouldn’t seem like they’ve been kissing for years, but they predict each other, and _know_ each other, habits and movements and preferences. Shane never anticipated how deep and intense a close-mouthed kiss could be; other partners have licked into his mouth insistently. It dawns on him that Ryan doesn’t have to; he’s made a home in Shane already.

He feels like he's being kissed for the _actual_ first time, and it's effortless, how his fingers find and fit the back of Ryan’s head. Ryan moves his hands, too, to the back of Shane’s neck and down his shoulders. Synchronized and steady and Shane never wants to stop. He can’t keep track of whose hands are where, and they aren’t two halves of a whole, but a mirror, a reflection met in the middle.

Every kissing cliché proves real: they have to break apart to breathe; their noses keep bumping; they're grinning like fucking idiots. Shane would sit here for the rest of the morning if he felt healthy enough to do so.

“You’re yawning.”

“‘M tired.” Ryan raises up on his knees; Shane’s never had anyone tuck his head underneath their chin before. “This is nice.” Shane yawns again. “Good steady heartbeat.”

Ryan’s chest shakes as he laughs. “Thanks, Doc.” He strokes through Shane’s hair again.

“That’s nice, too.”

“Come on.” Ryan gets off of Shane, stands up, holds out his hand. “Let’s put you to bed,” he says, and Shane lets Ryan pull him towards the bedroom, sleepy and stumbling.

“Haven’t changed clothes yet.”

“So we’ll change the sheets later.” Ryan navigates him through the doorway. “You need more blood?”

“Just sleep.” _He would get it fresh for you, though,_ a little voice in Shane’s brain tells him. _It would taste better._ Shane rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. “We have so much shit to sort through.”

Ryan sits down on the edge of the bed. “It’s the killing, right?”

“I’m not impressed. Have to admit it.”

He holds his hands in front of him, between his knees, fingers laced together. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I don’t know. I’m not used to associating you with ethical dilemmas.” Shane falls backward onto the bed. “Let me sleep on it.”

“If it helps…” Ryan lies down beside him, kicking off his sneakers. “I don’t know if I want you testing out your powers, either.”

“That—that actually does help.” Toeing off his own shoes takes monumental effort, but he doesn’t want to ask for help.

“I won’t keep you from, you know, learning about yourself. After last night, though? It scares me, because that might not be an isolated incident. It could happen again.” He pulls himself farther up the bed, closer to Shane, close enough to trail his fingers down Shane’s cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Shane holds Ryan’s hand against his face; the comforter lies bunched up between them, like their usual pillows on-shoot. “I think that’s what bothers me the most, beyond questionable morality: having you taken away, and not being able to do anything about it.” He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stubbornly stays put. “Maybe we can buffer each other from the slippery slopes.”

Ryan bites his lip. “Let me sleep on that, too.”

“As long as you’re sleeping here.”

“Aw, would you miss me?”

“Of course I would. You’re warm.”

Ryan pushes Shane's shoulder, and they hold each other, kissing and smiling, and Shane falls asleep deciding they're going to be okay, whatever Hell may come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such fun to write! I love these two idiots. :3
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider sharing [the aesthetic on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/172452413514/in-a-handful-of-hours-shane-has-been-summoned). Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I'm friendly and enjoy flailing excitedly about various topics.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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